


and i exist

by lamentingdawn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, corpse bloom - Freeform, famjam trio, kind of not sorry about how late this was written, kind of not sorry for the implied ships, modernverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5676211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentingdawn/pseuds/lamentingdawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the anniversary of a certain bandit’s death; another one shot concerning the life of a doctor, a part time assassin, and a part time mafioso. chaos ensues.</p>
<p>it always does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i exist

**Author's Note:**

> mentions of @whispering-carnage && @condxmnation‘s OCs from Tumblr whoops.

“you’ve been on your phone for three hours already.”

he comments as he swings through the window (no one ever uses the front door) with a bag of takeout, and the smell of artificial chinese food crammed tightly into three plastic boxes immediately floods through the living room. the moonlight illuminates him for the briefest moment but then he shuts the window, closes the curtains, and flicks the lightswitch on. white light floods the flat, bouncing off the white tiles that accentuate its modern theme.

from the couch comes a dull, “i’m texting the chronicles of my attempts to cook dinner to my boyfriend” and the last word rings off the tired, feminine voice like the low peal of a bell. 

“the russian one?” he hops over the coffee table to drop the bags on the counter. 

the noise makes her look up and he has already gotten used to the way her cobalt eyes are normally so scathing. “the scottish one. he said he was making dinner, what is that.” they dart away from his eyes and focus on the windswept looks of the plastic bags. 

the man rests an elbow on the counter- raises an eyebrow at the scorch marks left on the white marble surface, resolves to clean it later- and smiles innocently at her. “have i ever listened to him?” 

there’s a sudden _whistle_ and one of the sharper knives is suddenly flying through the air, skimming past his head and burying itself just two inches below the shelf housing souvenirs from England. “you should start,” comes the voice of their third flatmate, and he meets a stare that would kill him if it had the chance. “now, with putting all these groceries away.” 

he smiles wider and puts fixing all the holes in the wall on the to-do list for the weekend. 

* * *

they’re all sitting around the cheap circular table from IKEA that’d taken them three hours to assemble (it would’ve taken zathe roughly ten minutes, but the three of them were never meant to work together) and poking at what allrecipes called ‘wood smoked tri-tip steak with sicilian herb sauce’. underneath the shade of the table a calico kitten roams around. 

the trio only lasts a few minutes into silence until he breaks the silence with a “so how was _school_ today?” in the most patronizing tone. to his left rhys chokes on the iced coffee she’s sipping on and to the right zathe only rolls his eyes. the next second she ignores her food completely and starts to launch off on how _the kid from the nerf gun club challenged me to a fight on Thursday but_ fuck _i forgot i have a shipment to pick up that day_ and on and on she goes. in between her breaths the other throws in small snippets that drip with snark and there are brief moments where they snap back and forth at each other. 

he thinks they’d look nice together. 

as he parries her ‘ _fuck you’_ with a ‘ _you wish’_ he swallows his forkful of food and interrupts with a genial expression and a, “who’s doing the dishes today?” and it’s like throwing the apple of discord among deities. 

in his own way, he likes to be the troublemaker. 

(and like usual, rhys ends up doing the dishes.) 

* * *

a minute before midnight he stands before the open window, fixing his tie and rolling up his sleeves. by him stands the younger male (or female? there seems to never be a fixed gender for this one), absent-mindedly fixing the position of knives around his body. “the moon’s full,” he sighs wistfully, opening the window quietly, and the night breeze rolls in. 

“… more light for us to avoid,” the other grumbles and takes the initiative, the first to exit. 

“hm?” he follows after, takes a glance back as he closes the window behind him. “really? i’ve always admired the moon. d _o not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly._ ” he quotes it dramatically as they begin their ascent to the rooftops. 

off for another job. they’ll never survive like this, laughing by day and at each other’s throats by night. 

he resolves to return before seven tomorrow, anyways. 


End file.
